Blood Ties

by A. J. Quinnell

  There was not much he could do until daylight and then he spent a puzzled half hour poking and pulling at it while Lani made breakfast.

  They ate on deck under an awning which he had rigged over the boom while he explained to her his total inadequacy as an engineer. Back in Bombay Murjani, the engineer, had explained to him the rudiments and he was capable of very minor repairs and normal maintenance. However, what had happened to the Perkins he did not know and whatever had gone wrong was beyond him.

  He was despondent but Lani cheered him up. They were only forty or fifty miles from Mahé. The wind would soon come up and in a day they would get there. Meanwhile, in anticipation, they raised the sails which flapped forlornly

  But the wind refused to co-operate and for five days they had drifted with the current. On the second day they could just make out the peak of Mahé on the horizon and then real frustration set in because each morning it appeared no closer.

  For Ramesh it was a period of rising concern. Water was the main problem. He had left the Maldives with ample for himself, but with his unexpected passenger they were now dangerously low. Lani was unconcerned, having total faith in Ramesh even though he was embarrassed about not knowing what was even wrong with the Perkins, let alone be able to fix it. She spent a lot of time successfully fishing, for the water was relatively shallow. She caught a variety of fish while Ramesh tinkered with the engine with the frustration born of ignorance.

  By the fifth day he had become desperate. He noticed that they were drifting to the east. If that continued they would miss the islands; and then there was nothing for a thousand miles until Africa.

  He cursed his stupidity for not investing in a radio transmitter. By trying to save his capital he had put his life at risk-and worse-that of Lani.

  It was on this last day that Lani proved her worth. She was supremely confident that the wind would soon come up and see them safely into Mahé. She cooked him a delicious lunch and darned a couple of his shirts and chatted about what they would do when they arrived. In the face of such optimism his own spirits rose. Surely, he told himself, the lull could not last much longer and when the water ended they could squeeze liquid nourishment from the plentiful fish.

  He had just joined Lani with a line in his hand when they spotted the boat heading towards them.

  It was hard to explain all this to Rajaratnam, the lawyer, even though he was an Indian whose family had been settled on the Seychelles for over a century. During the days he had spent with Lani a bond had grown up which confused but warmed him. The thought of her being cooped up in a jail cell was painful.

  “What will happen to her?”

  Rajaratnam shrugged. He was a short, precise man with round spectacles, neatly dressed in a white shirt and dark tie.

  “It’s a bit complicated. Normally a stowaway is sent back from whence he or she came. She will not be allowed to stay and settle here. Any settler has to prove a sizeable income . . . and that she cannot do. Besides, she has no passport. It’s a decision that will have to be taken by the Governor and he’s down in the Amirante Islands until next week . . .”

  “Meanwhile she has to stay in jail?”

  The lawyer grimaced. “That’s the procedure . . . but I’ll try and do something . . . maybe they’ll let her out under your guarantee, but you would have to post a bond.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. It could be up to 10,000 local rupees. Do you have that much?”

  Ramesh calculated in his head and then nodded.

  “But what about your fee?”

  The lawyer waved a hand negatively. “Don’t worry about it. First we’ll try and get her released to your custody, then take it from there.”

  “Thank you.” Ramesh was about to get up when he remembered something. “By the way, could you recommend an engineer . . .? My engine . . .”

  Rajaratnam pursed his lips and then tut-tutted to himself.

  “That’s a problem. There is one. Charlie Marzzochi. He’s an Italian and good, but he’s in Mauritius on a job and will be away for weeks. The Government mechanic is in jail . . . doing four months for stealing diesel . . . I don’t know of anyone else. This is a small place. Is it serious?”

  Ramesh nodded. “I think so. I know very little . . .”

  The lawyer surveyed him for a few moments and Ramesh got the feeling that he totally disapproved of middle-aged babus sailing the seven seas. But he was immediately proven wrong. Rajaratnam suddenly smiled and said:

  “How crazy you are . . . but what an adventure! If I didn’t have a wife, mother-in-law, eight children and Lord knows how many other dependents, I’d do the same thing and to blazes with everything.” He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the slowly turning ceiling fan. Then speaking in measured tones as though in court he said.

  “First you have to diagnose how sick your engine is. How old is it?”

  “About forty years.”

  The lawyer winced and said “Spare parts are the big problem out here. Even for modern engines. Anyway, first you have to find out what’s wrong. I suggest you talk to Jack Nelson. He’s British. A retired colonial from Tanzania settled here now. He used to be an engineer in the Navy during the war.”

  “Ah that’s good,” Ramesh said in relief, but the lawyer held up his hand.

  “There are two problems. First that’s what he says . . . and he talks about it a lot given the chance. He makes it sound as though he kept the entire British fleet steaming single-handed. Well since the war he’s been building roads in East Africa and I doubt that he’s seen a marine engine in years. He strikes me as a talker more than a doer.”

  Ramesh’s face turned doleful and Rajaratnam said, “Nevertheless, he might be able to diagnose the trouble. However, you would have to persuade him and that could be difficult!” ‘

  “Why? I would pay him of course . . . if it’s not too much.”

  The lawyer smiled. “No, that’s not the problem. Jack Nelson is a bit of a bigot. Like a lot of those old colonials, and some that we’ve still got working in Government here. I get on all right with him - I arranged the papers when he bought his bungalow. But curiously, being an Anglo-Indian, he will tend to look down on you more than he would me.”

  Ramesh smiled grimly. “I have come across such an attitude before. Perhaps they think we stain their racial purity.”

  Rajaratnam shrugged and looked at his watch. “Mr Patel, I suggest you go down to the Yacht Club, where at this time Nelson will be propping up the bar. Try and get a little friendly with him. You might use the twin tactics of flattery and beer. He is susceptible to both. In the meantime I’ll see what I can do about Miss Sutowo. Don’t worry about her. Our prison is relatively comfortable and relaxed. I’ll arrange for you to see her in the morning.”

  Ramesh thanked him and got up to go. At the door the lawyer’s voice stopped him.

  “If you do get friendly with Nelson you could mention her plight. He might be able to help.”

  “How?”

  Rajaratnam spread his hands in a resigned gesture.

  “The famed British old boy network. Black, our Commissioner of Police, is another ex-East African colonial – and a friend of Nelson’s.”

  “I see.” Ramesh looked thoughtful. “This could cost me a lot of beer.”

  The Sawyer smiled. “Expensive beer. Nelson only drinks imported Heineken!”

  From a wooden bench in the prison courtyard Lani watched the sun come up. It was too hot to sleep in the cell, with its one small window. She had been surprised to find that she was not locked in at night but the wardress had smiled and explained that even if she escaped there was really nowhere for her to run to.

  She was the only occupant in the women’s section and had the courtyard to herself.

  High on the ridge of a hill the prison looked down over Victoria, the capital, and the harbour and beyond it the small islands ringing the harbour. In the increasing light she could just make out the white hull of M
anasa moored alongside the Yacht Club jetty, and for the first time she felt a sharp pang of self-pity. She decided that the days she had spent with Ramesh on that yacht were the happiest she had ever known. She had begun to realise that her prospects looked bleak. The British were a strict people and always abided by the rules. The wardress had told her that several people had been deported already that year – usually itinerant adventurers unable to support themselves and living off the generosity of the locals. The day before Ramesh had told her that he would find a lawyer and try to visit her in the morning. She wondered if he was awake yet. She guessed that in the heat he would probably be sleeping on deck. She strained her eyes but at that distance could not discern any particular form.

  For the next half hour she tried to guess her future. Would they try to send her back? Would Ramesh manage to get his engine repaired and continue with his voyage? Would they let her go with him? Would he still want her?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a door opening and she turned to see the fat black wardress smiling and holding a tray,

  “Breakfast young lady,” she said in the lilting accent of the Seychellois. “You sleep good?”

  She came over and put the tray next to Lani on the bench, clumped down beside and fanned herself with her hand.

  “Day’s barely started and hot enough to fry eggs without no cooker.”

  Lani looked down at the tray. There were two fried eggs and some limp bacon, a thick slice of bread with jam on it and a tin mug of milky tea.

  While she ate, with surprising hunger, the wardress chatted on happily, talking about her family and friends and a party she had been to the night before on the beach at Anse la Mouche.

  When she finally waddled off with the empty tray Lani felt miserable again. The people were so naturally happy and relaxed, so different from where she had come from and where she might have to go back to.

  She had begun to sink into real despondency when the courtyard door opened again and she turned to see Ramesh being ushered through. At the sight of his downcast face her own troubles became nothing.

  She jumped up and rushed over and threw her arms round him, hugging him tight. The wardress beamed at them and went out, closing the door behind her.

  Lani took his hand and led him over to the bench. As they sat down she said, “Ramesh, is it bad news?” She kept hold of his hand.

  He shrugged. “Lani, about you there’s no news yet. Only the Governor can decide and he is away for a few days. Meanwhile I’ve retained a lawyer . . . a very nice gentleman called Rajaratnam. He is an Indian whose family have been here generations. He is not optimistic but will do his best . . . and I’m told he is very good . . .”

  With deep concern she said “He must be expensive.”

  “Maybe, but I think not.”

  “And the boat? Is the engine very bad?”

  In exasperation he burst out “I do not know! I do not bloody know! Excuse me!”

  She was surprised by his fervour. She had never seen him incensed.

  “Can you not find out, Ramesh? There must be a mechanic.”

  “Mechanic!” he snorted. “There is one in Mauritius. Another here in jail. And a third, who says he is, and who I am wishing was in hell and one day will be. Excuse me!”

  “What happened?”

  He turned to face her, drew a deep breath and the story came out.

  The evening before when he had walked into the Yacht Club, Jack Nelson was sitting at the bar with Dave Thomas and two other Englishmen. They formed a small intimate semi-circle and after glancing at him resumed their conversation.

  Naturally shy, Ramesh hesitated to intrude. He went to the other end of the bar, ordered a beer, and took it to a corner table. He nursed it for half an hour until the other two Englishmen left with jocular farewells. Then he went back to the bar, closer to Thomas and Nelson, ordered another beer and then, with a sidelong glance, said to the bartender, “Perhaps these gentlemen would like a drink?”

  Thomas shook his head good naturedly. “Not me, thanks. My bundu’s cooking dinner and I’ve got to go.” He gestured at Nelson with his thumb. “But Jack here’ll have one. Never said ‘no’ in his life.” He drained his glass, climbed off his stool, said to Nelson “’night you old bugger, see you tomorrow,” and headed for the door.

  Diffidently Ramesh sat on the vacated stool. The bartender put a frosted green bottle of beer next to Nelson’s full glass.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ramesh Patel from Bombay.”

  Nelson nodded curtly and said “Jack Nelson.” He did not hold out his hand.

  “I understand you were in the Navy,” Ramesh said.

  Nelson appeared irritated. “Who told you that?”

  “Mr Rajaratnam. I called on him today.”

  Nelson’s face cleared. “Oh, old Raja. Good chap that. Yes, I was in the Navy, right through the war . . . and a few years after it . . . Those were the days . . .”

  He took a long pull at his glass and then refilled it, settled his bulk more comfortably on the stool and started reminiscing.

  For the next hour Ramesh struggled to keep a look of interest on his face. He listened to Nelson’s engine room exploits in everything from battle ships to submarines. Every once in a while he muttered “Goodness me!” and “amazing!” Finally, six beers later and after a story which had Nelson lying on his stomach for forty-eight hours dripping oil onto the damaged shaft bearings of a Malta-bound destroyer Ramesh said:

  “Mr Nelson, you must be a very good engineer.”

  Nelson shrugged modestly and his pendulous cheeks wobbled as he smiled. “Well we didn’t get as many medals as the deck officers but we kept the bloody ships moving. We did our job!”

  “Indeed,” Ramesh murmured reverently. “I wonder if possibly you could look at my engine?”

  Nelson’s smile vanished. “Your engine?”

  “Yes, it’s a Perkins P4 and it’s broken.”

  “I know it is. Listen, is that why you’ve been buying me all these beers?”

  “Oh no. I was very interested listening to your experiences . . . really.”

  Ramesh had a guileless face and reading it Nelson became angry.

  “You bloody people,” he burst out. “You think you can buy a bloke a few beers and he’ll do anything for you.”

  “No. No.” Ramesh said hastily. “Of course, I will pay you for your time.”

  “Pay me!” Nelson roared and stood up and thrust his red, sweating face close to Ramesh. “Pay me! You think I work for buggers like you? Christ, if I had my way your types wouldn’t even be allowed in this club!”

  “Really?” Ramesh said, his anger rising. “But you accept my drinks . . . what will you tell your friend tomorrow? That you’ve been getting free drinks from a wog?” He too stood up and they glared at each other. Then Nelson glanced at the bartender and said,

  “Jimmy, give this bastard back his money. Put the beers on my chit.” To Ramesh he said, “Take some advice. There’s an Indian ship due any day en route to Bombay. Get on it and go home. You’re no bloody sailor and never will be. I know about you. You’re nothing but a bloody babu. Go back to pushing a pen!”

  “And you are no engineer!” Ramesh retorted. “You are only talk. Big head! Sitting and drinking and talking and so on and so forth.” He was surprised by his anger, but it was fuelled by worry and frustration. “You are a bigot,” he went on. “You don’t rule the world any more in your sun hats and stupid baggy shorts; with your servants and posh, racially pure clubs. Those days are over Nelson. Your type is dying out and not too soon. You will soon be an extinct species and I say hooray to that!”

  He turned and walked stiffly to the open door, leaving a speechless Nelson at the bar, literally quivering with indignation.

  “So you see, Lani, I still don’t know what’s wrong with the engine . . . or even if it can be repaired.”

  Lani nodded mournfully, but then squeezed his hand and smiled encouragingly.

&nb
sp; “Never mind Ramesh. Something will turn up . . . Wait! What about that Indian ship that is coming. You could ask the engineer to look at it.”

  He nodded. “I had thought of that and of course I will do it. But the ship only stays a few hours before proceeding.”

  Lani digested that and then quietly asked, “Have you thought of going back to Bombay on it?”

  Ramesh sighed. “Of course that possibility had occurred in my mind . . . but it would be the end of a dream, and also . . . well what about you?”

  She squeezed his hand again. “Ramesh, I forced myself on to you without choice. I am not your responsibility. You must decide what to do without thinking of me.”

  He smiled down at her. “Lani that is not possible.” He glanced at his watch. “The lawyer will be in his office now. He is a sensible man. I will ask his advice about Manasa, about you, and even about me. I will come up to see you again this evening.”

  They stood up and she hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Keep your spirits up Ramesh,” she said. “Forget stupid men like Nelson. Something will turn up.”

  His meeting with Rajaratnam had left him even more depressed. The lawyer could only suggest that he ask a certain Jean Lamont to look at the engine. He was a sort of workshop assistant to the absent Charlie Marzzochi, but his reputation was that of being more a floor sweeper than mechanic.

  About Lani he was also pessimistic. He had an appointment in the afternoon with the Commissioner of Police but, knowing the man, he doubted that he would take a decision until the Governor returned. In the meantime Lani would probably have to stay in jail.